


Lost Letters

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Betrayal, Bombs, Electricity, Frottage, Gang Violence, Hand Jobs, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Pre-Canon, Terrorism, Trauma, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 06:27:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15835632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Every story has a beginning.Before he was the criminal mastermind of Ophir, Anton Rogue was something else. A different man.





	1. Chapter 1

When I first saw him, I knew what he was. Who he was. Call it a hunch—or perhaps it was simply because we were alike in many things. Not in what but in who: two violent beasts ready to tear apart anyone threatening them. Clawing our way to the top—because that was the only way to survive, at that time, at that place… So we believed.

I think, that first time, the moment our eyes met, I knew all of him, down to the darkest, dirtiest corners—all those things he was hiding, all those things he was hiding from. And I knew all good things, too.

There were not that many of them, to say the truth.


	2. Chapter 2

Anton shifted behind the crate. He had been hiding there for hours, and his legs were screaming bloody murder at him, and he didn’t want them to die under him but he couldn’t get up and stretch them either. So, he did what he could, sitting down on his ass and stretching them out, changing poses.

All in all, they were fucked.

The boys nearby tried to do what he did, rustling—but, despite being closer to him, their movements were not as loud to Anton as the noises outside: lazy voices, barked orders, boots stomping on the ground. Funny how danger messed with your perception and focus.

Between the five of them, they had only three nailguns.

_“You fight like a mole.”_

_“The fuck does that mean?”_

_“You’ve no skill, just blind rage, not thinking about yourself.”_

_“Isn’t that the whole point?”_

_“The point is to survive. Have you ever seen how an ostrich fights?”_

_“I’m not an ostrich-rider. Unlike some. So how do they fight?”_

_“They don’t. They run away.”_

Yeah, that had worked well. Now he had no choice but fight. Добегался. He checked the gun in his hands for the thirty fourth time, rubbed his elbow and listened.

The Zorka bruisers outside didn’t have to hurry. They had all the time in the world, with supplies, food. _Water_.

Anton twitched at the wet sound and turned to watch Alex drink the last of his can greedily. A drop slid down his stubble-dusted cheek to his throat. Anton watched its way down more carefully than he should have. He had told them to be careful with water, but not to wait for the thirst to settle. He needed them in a good state to fight.

Alex sat up, holding the upturned can with a frown, then his fingers tightened around it, denting the metal, and he stretched his hand to toss it… Anton grabbed his wrist. “Don’t.”

Alex looked at him. His face was drenched with sweat. Bad. He was losing liquid. “What?”

“Don’t throw the can away,” Anton said in as calm a tone as he could muster. “Bad luck. You’ll fill it up yet.”

Alex didn’t seem to comprehend, but he lowered his hand and put the can into his pants pocket. Good.

Alex was nineteen, gawky and tall, had two fathers and only a knife for a weapon.

Anton ran a hand over the nailgun in his hands, an ugly thing that was bound to jam after first couple of shots. Then he thrust it to Alex.

“What?” Alex said again, blinking slowly.

Bad reaction.

“I’m better with a knife, kid,” Anton assured him.

“But, boss, I can’t…” He scuffed his boots on the floor.

Anton put a hand on the nailgun, keeping it on the kid’s lap. “There won’t be any lack of targets. There’s only one entrance, and all of them will have to go through it. They’ll be an easy pick. Хорошо?”

“All right…”

Anton nodded, trying to project absolute confidence, and settled back behind the damned crate that had become more familiar than the pattern of scars on the back of his hands.

_“How do you do it?”_

_“How do I do what?”_

_“This. All this. Leadership thing.”_

_“I listen. I watch. And I give them what they need.”_

_“But that’s not always what they want.”_

_“Not necessarily. And it’s not always what I want either.”_

What they all wanted now, Anton thought, was a couple of rifles and a couple of heavies on the outside.

Anton couldn’t stop thinking about Alex’s parents. He’d met them, once, seen them from a distance: both of them stately and very handsome, heads full of silver. The Army did throw them a bone—a tiny pension, and a training tenure for one of them—but they weren’t important enough for anything substantial, for an eye implant for Sergeant Ward or meds for Private Ward. They had been walking down a very clean and very poor street, arm in arm, heads inclined to each other.

Anton had envied them.

He was stuck imagining how he would bring Alex’s body to them (like hell he was going to let them suffer without knowing what had happened to their boy). If it came to it, he would break his neck but scrape some money for the two fathers.

If he survived this himself.

His shirt was stuck to his back. The air was heavy, sour with sweat. They had only a couple of hours at most—and then it would be over, either from the lack of air or from Zorka’s thugs.

He hoped they would storm the warehouse already. He would have walked to the doors and told them to get on with it—but he was quite _un_ comfortable behind his crate, thanks. The crates that provided cover for him and his boys were filled with mining explosives—a protection from the Zorkas who would think twice before shooting.

The sudden silence outside dragged his attention out of his thoughts. Was it happening at last? Anton’s heart was pounding in his ears. He took his knife out of the thigh sheath, licked his lips. Tasted the bitter salt of sweat.

What would they do? Would they—

A cry made him jump.

It was a shrill, piercing cry and then it cut off abruptly and the following silence was more terrible than the cry itself. Anton thought his heart would stop. A commotion followed, shouts, scrambles, shots…

Anton felt the gaze of his boys on him. They needed answers. He licked his lips again, got to his feet, biting back a groan: despite his precautions his legs were stiff and his back was killing him. The boys were watching, so he gripped the curved handle of his knife tighter and crept to the door, pressing his back to the wall by it

The doors opened slowly. Anton didn’t move. He looked at his boys staring over the crates. Alex was clutching the nailgun in his trembling hands. Anton wanted to tell him to prop it on the crate for steadier aim.

Alex’s eyes were on the open door; they went wide and he paled.

Anton brought up the knife to his chest in a backhand grip.

“Oh, here you are!”

The door closed.

Anton stepped away from the wall as he looked over the newcomer. The guy was not much bigger than Alex, though older. Tall, thin, but in a way that spoke more of frequent movement than outright hunger. He was dressed in an old gray jacket reminding Anton of civil workers in the Exchange.

His arms were bloody to the fucking _elbow_.

The guy turned round. His eyes were the sharp steel of the knife in Anton’s hand. “I want into your gang,” the abomination said.

Anton heard himself ask, like Alex before, “What?”

The guy took a deep breath, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment, a shudder running over him. Then he looked at Anton again. “I want in your gang. Boss.”

He stared. Then lowered his knife very slowly, hearing the rustle behind the crates.

It was a bad idea.

It was the worst idea of Anton’s life, worse than the worst.

And he said, “Yes.”


	3. Chapter 3

Anton was lying without sleep in the nest of blankets. The night was alive with the usual clamor of the Slums: drunken songs, bangs, shots, cries of every kind—joy, anger, pain, fear, lust… Anton didn’t believe the saying that life was cheap. It wasn’t cheap, at least not for those it belonged to, because if it had been, nobody would have fought for their lives. The nightly noise meant that the Slums were still alive.

His room—his _own_ room—on the second floor of a repair shop was overlooking a small intersection and the few lamps hanging over it. He had to cover the only window with a piece of plastic—the bottom of a container—every night to block out the light from those lamps.

The shop—and the whole tiny house—belonged to a former Army mechanic, the mother of another of his boys, Sergey. “Repairs” meant “fixing everything that could be fixed”. Even in the Slums of Ophir (so big they deserved being spelled with a capital “S”) there were areas where you could simply buy a replacement if something got broken—but this particular neighborhood was not one of them.

Anton liked that line of thinking: “Don’t throw away those things that can be mended”—more so, probably, because he had already broken a few things beyond repair in his life.

_“Never throw things away during travel.”_

_“Why not? It’s dead weight!”_

_“So that the Devil couldn’t track you by them.”_

_“Do you seriously believe this stuff?”_

_“Do you seriously want to test it?”_

Anton was certain that today’s “acquisition” was either seriously broken or would break him.

What had he been thinking?

He’d been thinking about Alex’s fathers. And Sergey’s mother. About Vanya’s sister, about Vasiliy’s uncle (who wasn’t his uncle by blood).

They all had roots.

He had been thinking about the tall thin guy with hollow cheeks and bright, sharp gaze who had brought down a squad of the Zorka’s choicest bruisers all by himself, and he had thought: why not?

Блядство. He was so fucking dead.

His pallet was not the most comfortable bedding, but he had slept on worse things and he had his pile of blankets—four of them, to be exact, serving both as bedding and as cover and pillows. One of them was actually a covering for a rover, cut in half and washed. It still faintly smelled of the crude mole fat they used to treat vehicles.

The smell made Anton think of other places.

_“You need to apply the grease every day on every patch of skin not covered by cloth.”_

_“It smells awful.”_

_“Perfumed variety is for sale.”_

_“That smells awful, too.”_

_“Stop whining.”_

_“I’m not whining.”_

Suddenly, he knew he wasn’t alone.

He had made sure, when this room had been given to him, that the door creaked—that it would alert him to any intrusion. He hadn’t heard it now—or maybe he was lost in thought. Didn’t matter. What mattered was the tall figure, dream-like in the sole thin quadrangle of light that had sneaked through a crack between the plastic sheet and the window frame.

Anton reached under the pallet—then realized he had left his nailgun with Alex.

The figure moved, coming alive and confirming that Anton wasn’t dreaming. He sat up. He was wearing only pants and a soft old shirt—not enough to protect him in a fight. Anton tested his voice, “You should go to sleep.” It seemed wrong to talk loudly. His boys were asleep in adjacent rooms.

No reply.

Anton’s heart was hammering in his chest, just like hours ago.

The dark figure moved to his nest. Pulled several blankets aside. And slid under them.

He thought again that he might be dreaming after all.

_“I don’t need this.”_

_“I don’t have anything else to pay with.”_

_“I’m not a pimp and don’t take the unwilling into my bed.”_

_“I’m willing.”_

_“I doubt it. And if you come with this shit again, I won’t hesitate before punching you, I promise.”_

He was terribly warm. Anton, for some reason, thought he would be cold. Imagined he would reek of blood. “What are you doing?” Anton whispered, but it was rather obvious, even though his mind was trying to come up with any explanation _but_ the obvious: cold, a need for company, an attempt to kill him…

“Shh.”

Arms sneaked around him, and he started, because the hands were _cold_. It didn’t make Anton any less hard, however, and he couldn’t tell up from down. They burrowed under the blankets that warmed up immediately—a tight heat that blocked out the rest of the world.

Warm lips grazed over Anton’s mouth. He wasn’t sure if it was a kiss—or just a search for some landmark. Maybe he was not the only one feeling disoriented, lost.

“At least tell me your name,” he whispered, mapping those lips with small kisses. He brought his hands up, half-expecting to find wisps of a dream in his arms—but instead there was hot skin, ribs like the familiar curving handle of his knife. Scratchy shirt (he would buy him better clothes, he promised to himself). A heart beating just as strongly as his own. He kept one hand over that heart, palm flat on the bony chest.

“Viktor,” came the answer to the question he had nearly forgotten.

“Vitya.”

He grazed Viktor’s abdomen with his cracked nails and swallowed a short gasp. The waistband of Vitya’s pants was tight, but Anton managed to sneak his hand under it. His wrist was twisted uncomfortably, but he didn’t care. He closed his fingers around Vitya’s hot cock.

Vitya went rigid.

Anton felt like he was on a precipice of a revelation, with short shallow bursts of air on his his cheek, a lock of hair tickling his chin. He caught it with his lips.

Vitya was slender in Anton’s hand, unbearably hot. Alive. Anton’s head swam with heat and the need to wrap his mouth around him. It had been a while since he had had an opportunity to do so. But he couldn’t bring himself to move away, and so he held Vitya, tightening and loosening his grip in a faltering rhythm.

And then, a long sigh brushed his lips. “Tosha.”

He did find his revelation—he just didn’t know what exactly had been revealed, only that Vitya’s lips were wet from his kisses, and Vitya’s hand matched the tight grip on his cock, and his head was pounding with heat, and he didn’t hear anything but soft gasps, and the rustle of blankets, and a name whispered again and again and again.


	4. Chapter 4

I was a fool in those early days (you of all people know just how much of a fool; perhaps I have never ceased to be one). Some details of those days stand out perfectly in relief—and all of them related in some way to one person, and nobody else.

I knew him then, but didn’t realize what I knew. Or didn’t care to realize. We were… swept by each other, drawn into the storm of each other’s personality, actions, convictions…

We called each other by names that, shaped by any other lips, would have been wrong and would have prompted an immediate punch to those lips.

He scared my boys, received proposals from others (proposals that I had to fight off). I don’t think attracting so much attention was a part of his initial plans (or the requirements placed on him)… But he was free. Drunk on that freedom. I could see it in the nervous bite of his lips, the brightness of his eyes. In the blood on his fists (and on mine, too; we were… we were). 


	5. Chapter 5

Things were looking good. Vik was looking good, too, in a new jacket: all black, refined mole hide. Voluminous, especially on Vik’s gaunt frame, perfect for hiding useful things. It required greasing, but it was durable and could save life from a passing knife. No patches, no markings, not a scarf over the neck or a sash on the waist. Just a black jacket.

Anton frowned, scratched his chin. “One thing missing.” He strode to Vik, smiled at his confusion, slung one arm around his waist—and slipped a gun into the holster strapped to Vik’s left thigh.

_“Tosha.”_

It sounded like admonishment, but Vik was more than capable of expressing his displeasure in other ways. Like bending down and biting Anton’s lip.

He grinned. Vik was taller than him by a couple centimeters. It only meant that Anton could run his fingers into the unruly, unevenly-cut mop of hair and pull Vik down into a kiss.

“We have to take them off now, however,” Vik murmured.

Anton didn’t want to pull away. Vik’s lips taste of candied oranges they’d had for breakfast. He dropped his hands to Vik’s shoulders, smoothed them over the jacket, admiring the contrast of the column of Vik’s throat in the black encasement of the jacket collar. “Keep it. If you alone wear it, nobody will suspect any shit.”

Vik’s face crumpled the funny way. “Language, Tosha.”

He snorted. “Отъебись.” He danced away from Vik’s grabbing hand. “Shouldn’t we be somewhere else?”

Vik only huffed, then took off the nailgun and left it carefully in the cabinet.

They had rented the place beside the repair shop, now that their gang was bigger. “Vory”, Anton had named them (and he had felt Vik’s mental smirk even though it hadn’t been on Vik’s face). Because that was what they were. _Thieves_. Smugglers, too. A loud name without actions to back it up was just noise. A simple name attached to loud actions was better. To every new member, and sometimes to the existing members, he said that they were not _killers_. Only thieves. Though he had never forgotten about arms bloody to the elbow.

They left the house without holding hands, but Anton was tempted to reach out for Vik. He felt drunk, he felt like he was in—

He brushed that thought away, glancing sidelong at Vik.

Vik was bad news. The worst idea ever.

And Anton didn’t want to care.

_“We don’t sleep with our business partners and we don’t sleep with those dependent on us!”_

_“Yeah, and those severely underdressed boys and girls that flock around you don’t share your bed!”_

_“They don’t! They are my bodyguards!”_

_“Like fuck—”_

_“Language!”_

He was thinking a lot about that time lately.

They walked together, shoulders brushing. Vanya was keeping a little distance behind. Both Anton and Vanya were dressed in their old garb, though cleaned for the occasion. Nobody paid them any heed. Just like Anton wanted. In no time, the Slums, the whole of Ophir would learn to respect the black jackets, but they would be a mask, just like everything else. Take off the mask, and you turn into a nobody again. Anton had realized long ago that he didn’t mind being a nobody—if it was on his terms.

They left the Slums through a tunnel and went to the big elevator to the Exchange. The work day has just started, but there were plenty of people jostling in the elevator, mostly civil servants in neatly pressed jackets and white shirts, but there were a handful of factory workers, too. Anton tried to make himself and Vanya look no worse: just honest men going to the Exchange for supplies.

Some left on the first level, but most went further up to the maglev station. Anton and his companions stepped onto the platform. Anton glanced up nervously at the depiction of the line, repeating to himself the name of their station and how long they’d have to travel to it.

Doing the Vory business at the Exchange was risky, and despite memorizing the maps Anton had been at the precise place of the meeting only once: he couldn’t afford being noticed strolling there frequently. But the potential of establishing a contact in the Army who could sell them some useful supplies that the Army had written off was worth the risk.

The maglev, silent as ever, was drawing to the station. Anton imagined drilling worms looked like it: long, fast, with glowing eyes… All right, he didn’t know whether they had eyes.

He turned to Vik to ask him—and was knocked on the shoulder by a hurrying figure in worker overalls. “Sorry, pal,” they muttered. They were clutching a small box and shouldering their way into the cab.

Anton rubbed his shoulder and was swept into the maglev by the rush of people.

The cab was _packed_. All seats were filled quickly, but every bit of the breathing space was filled with people, too, it seemed. Anton had never felt so confined. He was breaking in sweat under his shirt, and the walls of the cab were closing in on him…

He startled when a hand touched his. Anton glanced to his left, gripping the rails desperately even though with how packed it was he wouldn’t be able to fall even if he wanted to.

Vik was watching him. And then his lips twitched in a small smile, and his fingers slotted between Anton’s, dry and cold.

The walls eased out a bit.

Anton stared straight ahead at Ophir moving past the windows, cold and vast. The loudspeakers announced the stop. The maglev started to slow down—and juddered silently.

Anton frowned, turned to Vik—

And the walls collapsed on him.

***

Something was digging into his side. Sandsails weren’t particularly roomy, but after a while one learned how to make a comfortable nest among the most precious cargo that was kept inside, unlike the less-fragile and less precious cargo affixed to the hull.

Anton remembered that he had fixed everything properly, so why—

He wasn’t in the bowels of a sandsail.

He tried to lift his head, but it was heavier than usual. Had they had too much yesterday? There was a strict rule on not drinking when the caravan was on the move…

_He was not in the sandsail._

Sounds started trickling into his heavy, heavy head. Crunch of rock. Hiss of static. Sobs and moans. A long, unending wail that didn’t waver, didn’t change tone.

Anton’s left arm was wet.

He opened his eyes. It was the most difficult thing in the world, opening his eyes. After a series of pained attempts he sat up, robbed of breath. The thing that had dug into his side looked like polished yellowed bone—though with a strange jagged edge. It took him an eternity to recognize it as a torn peace of a plastic chair.

He hissed as something pressed into his palm as he stabilized himself on an unidentifiable piece of… a wall?

Around him, was chaos. He couldn’t see clearly from white smoke. It made his stomach flip, but he swallowed several times to settle it. Chairs were thrown to one side. A rail was bent out of shape.

There were bodies.

He tried to remember how he’d gotten here. There had been people, yes, and the judder of the maglev… Maglev. The Exchange. Meeting.

_Vitya._

Anton jumped to his feet, pain forgotten—and hit his head on the ceiling. It confused him, because as he remembered, the cab had been spacious enough to accommodate him and Vik—

Vitya.

He looked around, fearing, searching for that unruly mop of hair.

He saw the black jacket.

Anton stumbled to it, to Vitya, fell to his knees. Vik looked so pale and so peaceful with his eyes closed, even though there was a cut on his cheek, a gash on his forehead. And his hair longer than Anton remembered. Transfixed, Anton touched this newly-grown hair—and shuddered when his fingers came off wet. The darkness about Vik’s head was not hair, it was _blood_.

He stared at Vitya without a single thought in his mind. Tried to wipe the blood off the cut on his cheek and only smeared it. He patted his pockets. He needed a handkerchief, a scarf, anything, Vik wouldn’t want to be dirty—

Anton took in a gasping breath. And curled over Vik’s body, wetness hot on his cheeks.

The wail was not stopping.

***

Trying to recall everything that had happened made his hands shake, so Anton left those attempts. They had given him something that had numbed the insistent pains in his whole body, fixed his left arm in a sling, and put him on one of the chairs. Distantly, he was aware that the chair was uncomfortable. But he sat there, counting the cracks in the wall paints over and over and over. Cries, and sobs, and the rush of the hospital washing around and over him like a dream.

Someone was asking for a mirror, repeating their plea again and again.

He couldn’t tell how much time had passed before he was able to start thinking again. Calculating losses. Imagining how he’d go to Vanya’s sister and tell her that he had killed her little brother. He tried to measure how much Serum she would need. He didn’t want to think that he would be buying her silence or buying off of her brother’s death or…

A door opened.

He forgot everything for the moment and jumped to his feet—ducking his head and belatedly remembering he wasn’t there anymore. He reached for the medic walking out of the operation room. The medic looked at him with vacant eyes.

“I need to see him.” It came out slurry, and Anton hated it. He pressed his tongue behind his teeth, willing it to cooperate, and repeated, “I need. To see him.”

“Only relatives,” the medic said. It sounded like something they had repeated too many times today.

Anton shook his head. “I need.”

“Who are you? Family?”

“I’m his… I’m his…” He couldn’t say it. Didn’t know what to say. He wanted to cry. All of this was reminding him of a different time, the time he had thought he had buried: the reek of despair, the monotone blue of the walls, the _smell_.

Hot tears spilled onto his cheeks, and hollowness clawed at his insides.

Something human appeared on the medic’s face. “He’ll live. He’s asleep now. You may visit him.”

Anton wanted to kiss them. Instead, he went to Vitya.


	6. Chapter 6

Vik had refused to stay. Refused to be divested of the torn, bloody jacket. Anton didn’t have the heart to take it away. Sergey had found them at the hospital, and together the two of them had helped Vik home.

The walk was a nightmare, slow, with Vik nearly a dead weight between them, biting his lips, pale and absolutely silent. Anton had his arm wrapped around his waist under the remains of the jacket. His face wouldn’t stay dry.

No, not a dead weight. _Alive_.

At the elevator they were met by two more boys. Anton couldn’t concentrate enough to see who it was. He refused to let go of Vik. Wanted to bury his nose in his hair and never let go of him.

They made their way to the house, somehow, and up to the second floor, with Vik passed out already. Anton shooed the others away and carried Vik in his aching arms those final steps to the bed. Slowly. Carefully. Concentrating on every step.

He lowered Vik on the blankets, covered him. Smooths wrinkles on the gray rover cover. Vik’s lips parted. He was very gray.

Anton was afraid to touch him. He stepped away.

“Boss.”

Anton looked up. Everything was slightly out of focus, and his eyes were burning, as though he’d gotten a handful of sand to the face. “Going to Vanya’s sister,” he said, making his way past Sergey.

“Boss. You need rest. Doctor’s orders.”

He shook his head. Reached into the right pocket in his pants and thrust a rattling bottle into Sergey’s pants. “Painkillers. If he…” He shook his head again. “When he wakes up. One pill. I’ll be back soon.”

“Soon” might have been too ambitious. He stepped out of the house. Realized he didn’t know the hour. His walk was slow. Once, he looked up and panicked because he thought he was lost. He never got lost in the Ophirian Slums before. He had reoriented fast, but that moment of confusion left his heart racing.

The closer he walked to Vanya’s home, the slower he was becoming. Not because he feared what was to come. But because whatever they had given him was wearing off. His limbs were growing heavy, and his stomach roiled. The very bones in his left arm felt cold.

He kept walking regardless.

The small home had two entrances—for two families sharing it. Anton had realized he couldn’t recall Vanya’s sister’s name. He shuffled between the two doors. They had only numbers on identical blue plaques. He wanted to throw up at the sight of that color.

Anton startled as the door on the right opened, and blue—blue—eyes stared at him. Then frowned.

He remembered dimly that Vanya’s sister was married. They had a kid, too. Maybe. “Apologies,” he croaked. He was not sure how he looked. Vitya would have fixed his looks. “I am lost—”

“I know who you are.”

His mind was sluggish. He wanted to sit down. He wanted to be home and curl up around Vitya. “Ah. I… I wanted to see…” Katerine. Vanya’s sister’s name. “You must be Katerine’s wife?” Of course Katerine herself would be at the hospital. He was so stupid.

A tiny kid peeked from behind the woman. The kid had blue eyes, too. Vanya’s blue eyes. “Go away. Now, before I called for help,” the woman hissed.

Anton couldn’t even reel back. He thought he would simply collapse if he did. Suddenly, he remembered he still had some Serum on him. S500, on a untraceable chip. They had taken it to that meeting, intended as a sort of preliminary gift or a downpayment, would depend on—

Depend. Now, it was the price of Vanya’s live.

Anton swallowed. His mouth was terribly dry. He reached into his pants, no, maybe he’d lost it… Had he taken it out with the pill bottle? No, no… Ah. He fished it out of the back pocket and held out to the woman.

She stared at it. Then at him. “We don’t need you bloody money!”

“I’ll bring you more—”

“We don’t need the money with blood on them!”

He stared. Blinked at her, once. “This is just money.” There was no blood on them. Who cared where they came from?

She slammed the door to his face. He glanced around. There was a group of older people staring at him. He had to leave.

He looked at the chip in his hands. Then put it into the mail box affixed to the wall.

He was so tired and heavy with pain.

***

The way home took several centuries. Anton wondered idly what he’d do if he were mugged. Not much he _could_ do. He would give them whatever they wanted. The problem was that he wouldn’t be able to get up if someone pushed him down.

Nobody tried to mug him.

He shuffled to their intersection and looked up. There were two figures by their house. It wasn’t difficult to guess who they were, what with the neat gray jackets and Abundance hammers on the shoulder. They were too straight-backed to be just clerks. The two Army goons with rifles hovering behind them left no doubt either.

Охранка. The ASC. Anton cursed under his breath.

Anton approached them from behind just as one of the officers raised their fist to pound on the door. “Please don’t do that,” Anton managed to say. “There’s a sick person, and they need rest.”

They turned to him, both of them. “And you are?”

He shrugged and winced as it sent a rush of pain down his left arm. “I live here.”

“Anton Rogue?”

He didn’t answer. Judging by their faces, they knew who he was. Hopefully, not what he was.

“You and Viktor Rogue have left the hospital. Why?”

“There are people who need those hospital beds more than we do.”

“What were you doing on the maglev?”

“Going to the Exchange, like everyone else.”

“What for?”

He was getting tired of being barked at. “To buy things.”

“What things?”

“We have just rented this place, and it needs repairs.”

“Did you notice anything unusual on the maglev?”

He thought about the figure with the box. “No. Nothing caught my eye.”

“What do you do for a living?”

He looked straight into the agent’s face. “I thieve.”

He saw the punch and rolled with it. He didn’t care much for a broken nose, and a split lip would heal; it jarred his head badly, however, making his vision go dark at the edges. He didn’t stumble, only looked at the agents again.

They seemed unaffected. He matched their expressions.

“Do not go smart on us.”

“My bad, officers,” he said without changing his tone. “Too much painkillers, you see.”

“Yeah. We see. Contact the ASC if you remember anything unusual. Good night, citizen.”

He watched them go. Checked with his tongue that his teeth were all intact. When the bastards disappeared from sight, he turned and entered the house. The way up was almost unbearable, and his legs all but gave up. He gripped the rails, then crept through the corridor to the bedroom, leaning on the wall.

Vik was on his side, blankets thrown away. He was always running hot, even though his hands usually were cold. Anton didn’t understand it. He was always cold himself. For some reason, usually Vik would end up hogging all the blankets and Anton would wake up shivering and having to press himself to Vik tighter.

There was a giant slash on the back of the black jacket, not to mention tiny nicks and scratches.

Anton knelt on the bed and slid a finger under the collar of the jacket.

“Don’t take it.”

Vik’s voice was so weak that Anton could have wept. But he was alive. His eyelids fluttered, and he stirred, but Anton moved his hand to his cheek, stopping him. “Have to mend it.”

Vik opened his eyes. They were not the usual sharp steel, but simply drained of color. Tired. Wet. “You alright?” Vik’s gaze flicked to his mouth.

His lips were stinging, and he tasted blood. He smiled even though it made the cut open again. “It’s nothing.”

Vik’s eyes were searching something in his face. Anton’s heart was three times bigger than usual. It was so quiet.

“Tosha, I…”

He shook his head. “Sleep. It’s all right.” He bent down and pressed a kiss to Vik’s hair. It smelled of dust. Anton lingered there, cradling Vik’s face in his palm. Feverish. Soft. Alive.

They were alive.


	7. Chapter 7

If Anton would have considered working with the opposition before, after the maglev he had resolved to never work with terrorists. He told his boys that terrorists were bad for business, since the maglev attack had led to the ASC tightening security. Some looked at him with disgust; others nodded.

He didn’t care.

He had found S500 in the mailbox the morning follow the maglev attack.

_“As a leader, you earn respect and then loyalty.”_

_“You can command others through fear.”_

_“You can. You can even attract loyal fanatics this way. But fear is a hungry beast, and you would be standing in its maw.”_

_“You sound like a preacher.”_

_“I’ve met preachers in my travels. They all prey on the desperate.”_

_“Don’t you?”_

They established communication with the Army contact. She was agreeable to meet on their terms. Anton made sure to check her for the Opposition army connections.

Vik was healing fast—physically, but there was a quietness to him that Anton didn’t like. Vik didn’t shy away from his embrace at night, though, so Anton kept his worries to himself for the time being. They had to get out of the oppressive gray of Ophir. He had to take Vik out, before the city poisoned him. Before Vik disappeared in its bowels.

The rover was a terrible ride. Anton felt like any moment it would rattle his soul right out of him. He kept throwing looks at Vik. Vik’s ribs had healed by now, and he was sitting on the uncomfortable bench beside Anton and staring ahead with a neutral expression. He was doing it a lot now, was quieter—and getting into fights, more recklessly than before. He would slip away from Anton and from whichever of the boys Anton would assign to him, and then return with his knuckles bloody and his lips busted, dark and terrible.

Anton wanted to wrap him in his arms so tight their skin would split.

He had to focus on the task ahead, for now. He hoped the guy who wanted Relics out of his hands and called them for a meeting out of Ophir wouldn’t be a trap.

He hoped _he_ wouldn’t know of the exchange about to happen—but if Anton knew even a little of _him_ , Anton’s dealings were certainly known already.

He tried not to think of it.

He tried not to think what he’d do if it came to an open confrontation. Again.

He stared ahead at the peeling paint on the opposite wall of the rover and covered Vik’s cold hand. At least Vik wasn’t shrinking away from his touch. At least he wasn’t abandoning their nest at nights.

Anton had decided to take only the most necessary number of boys on this trip: Sergey, because he was the one to bring the old hunter—the owner of the rover; Alex, sitting straight-backed with a rifle across his lap. One of Alex’s fathers had been able to purchase an eye implant, and the other was getting meds regularly. Anton felt ridiculously proud.

The inside of the rover was heating up. It jumped on the stabilizers at various intervals, messing with Anton’s perception of time.

Anton half-closed his eyes. Something was… He frowned. Rubbed Vik’s fingers.

They were cold, smooth and hard.

Anton opened his eyes. He was trembling. The rover was silent, still. Empty—except for the presence beside Anton. He feared to turn his head. Feared what he’d see—but, drawn to it, unable to stop himself, he did turn.

Instead of steel-gray eyes, there were brown pinpricks. Instead of the unruly spikes of hair—a bald wrinkled head with brown spots that were shifting and expanding even as Anton looked. Not a nose, but two vertical holes. The lower jaw collapsed. Muscles thin, skin wrinkled, brown, _burned_. Spikes on the elbows.

Bones for fingers.

The abomination grinned at Anton with black teeth. He tried to pry his hand away, but the bones held strong, trapping his fingers.

He couldn’t scream. His throat was stuffed with something dry. He went still when the abomination leaned to him and breathed hot air that reeked of charred flesh. “The Shadow is waiting for you.”

He jerked away—and blinked, looking into familiar steely eyes. Vik’s brow was furrowed, his warmed hand lying on top of Anton’s. “Our stop, boss.”

With his other hand Anton reached under his mole jacket and felt his elbow. No spikes, no protruding thin bones. Just healthy flesh.

He closed his eyes briefly. His shirt was stuck to his back.

Just a dream.

He desperately wanted to kiss Vik, to wipe off that dream. The details were already fading, but the nauseating feeling remained. He couldn’t kiss him, though. They had shit to do.

Блядство.

They were alone in the rover, and Anton kicked himself mentally. Some boss he was, falling asleep like this, letting his subordinates go out without him.

Vik was still looking at him, that furrow deepening. Anton nodded and unstrapped himself from the seat. “Let’s move.”

He felt infinitely better outside. It was just after the sundown, but the rock of the shallow canyon still kept the heat, so they didn’t need nighttime gear to keep warm, although they had stocked the rover with blankets and insulated vests just in case.

The old hunter, her hair completely gray and shaggy, was smoking on a boulder by the rover. Anton nodded to her, and she gave him a half-hearted salute. Vory had given her enough materials and Serum to get her rover into working condition, and Anton had picked a place in the Underworks to keep it (Anton remembered the old mole tunnels in the Underworks—the way he had left Ophir once, the way he had been brought back, later). Being a hunter, she didn’t care for the possible appearance of locusts or moles. Anton hoped for a long, productive alliance with her.

He tilted his head up—and smiled. A trail of spilled salt crossed the dark sky. Anton’s eyes burned, and he blinked several times. He didn’t realize he’d missed this. He would bring Vik here another time, just the two of them, not for business but to watch the blue of the sundown.

Anton took a deep breath and straightened his jacket.

Alex was already scanning the canyon with his eyes, Sergey beside him. Vik kept his hand on the gun holster.

Anton walked past them towards the small crumbling tower at the end of the canyon. A single rail line was leading to it, the rails all but dust by now. It used to be either a scientific outpost or a watchtower, Anton bet on the latter. In any case, it was disused now, away from the main lines.

He strode right to it. It was so blessedly quiet, unlike the Slums, unlike Ophir as a whole. Maybe they could claim this watchtower to themselves, use it as an out-of-Ophir warehouse for—

“Ambush!”

Anton ducked on reflex, his gun in his hands. The sheet of metal covering the lower part of the watchtower fell away, revealing eight people with rifles trained on them and fanning out.

All of them had beak-like half-masks covering their mouth and nose, and spikes on their jackets.

Anton turned into stone.

 _He_ knew.

Shots sounded from behind him, but he didn’t flinch. The masked attackers didn’t either. They parted neatly, and distantly he admired the synchronized action, even though he didn’t understand why…

Another person stepped forward from behind them, tall and dressed in a short jacket covered with many wires. Their gloves were a calculated mess of wiring, too. It reminded Anton of something, but he couldn’t…

They lifted their hand.

“Tosha!”

He tumbled to the sand, pushed away by Vik, then a lightning sparked, bright and terrible in the last afterglow of the sun. Anton shielded his face, but too late. The branching lines left an afterimage.

A muffled thud sounded near him.

He blinked several times.

His heart stuttered when he saw Vik twitching on the ground. Anton rushed to him—and was pulled back by someone. “No, boss! You’d get zapped, too!”

He didn’t care. He needed to—

“Boss! Boss, he’s breathing, see?”

He stopped struggling. His vision was clearing, but yes, he could see it. Vik was breathing, though he was still unconscious.

“So, it _is_ you,” a vaguely familiar voice drawled.

Anton looked up.

One of the Noctians lowered their half-mask and pushed their goggles up. Anton couldn’t place the mostly covered face, but he knew the nasty scar running over the left brow and left cheek.

He had put it there himself.

Frances bent to him with a sneer. “Was sure you’d perished, you shit. The way we’d done you…”

Anton gritted his teeth, then managed, “But see, I didn’t. Should’ve worked better, Fran.” He groped for his gun, but his holster was empty. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the gun lying just a pace to the left. It must have fallen out of his grip when Vik had pushed him out of harm’s way.

Vitya.

Anton didn’t look away. Looking away from Frances would doom them all. He couldn’t put one life above all of them. Even if it was Vik. Vik would be all right.

Frances tilted their head. “Got a mouth on you still, that’s what I see.”

Anton felt all guns trained on them, and he knew how good of a shot any Noctian guard was.

He refused to be defeated. He forced himself to tense and relax muscles in his whole body, head to toe. Tilted his chin up. “You haven’t come to finish your lousy job,” he said, and his voice was calm. “You would have shot me several moments ago. It means, you are just a messenger. Give me your message, then.”

Frances frowned. Anton thrilled inside— then he realized that Frances’s displeasure might cost him lives. He leaned just that bit toward Vik.

“The message,” said another voice from behind Frances, and the technomancer came to view. They were very tall and now that Anton was more lurid, he could see their attire was a mesh of Noctian and technomantic gear, though he couldn’t say whether Auroran or Abundancean. “The message,” they said with an emphasis, “is that you are not to meddle with technomancers or anything related to them.”

With the technomancer’s presence he didn’t think Frances would shoot him. “And who would forbid me?”

Frances sneered. “The Prince, you fucking mutie!”

He didn’t reel back. He didn’t even flinch.

He just punched Frances—a short jab to their face. His fist caught on the edge of the mask, and when he dropped it by his side, it stung with the cut. He simply watched as Frances stumbled back, hand pressed to their face, blood dripping. Blood for blood.

The technomancer didn’t move either. They had green eyes, though a different shade than their Prince’s.

It figured that Dandolo would employ some rogue technomancer.

“I apologize for my colleague’s words,” the technomancer said. “But I shall repeat. If you involve yourself in Relics trade or with technomancers, there will be retaliation. In addition, let us remind you of other warnings and prohibitions given to you when you had been returned to your home city.”

“When you beat me almost to death and left in the Underworks to die?” Anton reiterated quietly.

The technomancer didn’t even twitch, the bastard. Maybe all that electricity undid all their emotions. “Nonetheless, remember that the Prince’s reach is long and his memory is very good.”

“What does it mean?” Sergey stepped from behind. He holstered his gun carefully.

Anton would have a talk with him later. He didn’t have the time now. He crouched by Vik. The charge must have left him already, but Anton shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it into a bundle then lifted Vik’s head with it slightly and pushed it firmly under his neck.

Vik’s eyelids fluttered, and Anton’s stomach lurched with memories. “The Prince’s instructions are very clear,” he muttered. All canteens with water were in the rover. Блядство. Vik needed water.

“No. I mean… The… The M-word,” Sergey grumbled.

Anton clenched his fists. Vik’s eyes were open and looking at him, and he couldn’t turn away.

Frances laughed, though it turned into wet coughs quick. “You haven’t told them, Anton? Figures! Didn’t tell them that you left your shit city and why…”

Vik was watching him.

“Захлопнись,” Anton hissed.

“What? Didn’t hear that?” Frances’s voice was grating. “Maybe your lips are already burning. Just like your mother’s, you piece of—”

A loud crack sounded, and Frances cried out.

Anton looked up sharply. Frances was swaying on their feet, chin and jacket all covered in blood streaming from their nose.

The technomancer lowered their hand. The back of their left glove was stained with blood. “Again, I apologize. You have received your warning. There will not be another.”

Anton’s jaws felt numb, but still he forced himself to say, “I don’t work for him anymore, but far as I remember he never sent even the _first_ warning.”

The technomancer watched him without so much as a twitch in their face. “Precisely. Please think on it.” They tilted their head, then turned round sharply. “Frances. We are leaving.”

Anton watched them go. He startled when his hand was touched with a small spark. He looked down at Vik. “Vitya…”

“Should go home, too,” Vik said in a weak voice, swallowed several times.

Anton closed his eyes. How dare Dandolo threaten him? How dare he send his goons and attacke _his people_?

Anton looked at Vik again, brushed dark hair away from his face. “Yeah. We’re going home.”


	8. Chapter 8

You always said that loyalty can’t be bought (let it be known that I never forget), but apparently, it could waver, ebb, fade away. I lost many people over the years: bought over, scared, seduced away. But first times are usually hard to forget, and I haven’t forgotten.

Sergey had left because he didn’t want to work with someone who could turn into a mutant any day. He had gathered his own gang.

They all have been dust for many years now.


	9. Chapter 9

Pacing his office—a small room on the first floor of his and Vik’s house—Anton was clenching and unclenching his fists, trying to keep himself from hurling things into the walls. Their finances were thin even without him causing needless damage. And growing thinner each week.

Things were falling apart.

They had lost a cargo of meds and explosives to a mole attack a month ago. Three weeks ago, it had been an ASC raid—without injuries, but they had to relocate to a different warehouse. Two weeks ago, one of his handlers had being killed in a bar fight, with everyone suddenly turning a blind eye. A week ago, they had lost their contact in the Army. She had simply went silent, disappeared without a trace—or someone had disappeared her.

No connections between the events—except for the sole thing of them happening to the Vory.

Anton did not suspect Dandolo. The Prince was not the person to ruin lives over a personal grievance, and Anton was careful to keep his operations to Ophir. He was not strong enough to confront Dandolo. Yet.

Someone was selling them out, bit by bit.

Блядство.

He had to get himself under control, before someone saw him like this. And he had to find the culprit. It didn’t feel like petty revenge for plutoing or withholding of pay. It was insidious, clever. It was someone with a plan.

It was someone who knew everything.

Anton stopped abruptly, eyes drawn to the gun resting in a holster left on a shelf behind Vik’s desk. Vik didn’t need to carry a gun around here: it was the Vory neighborhood. For now. And anyway Vik was deadly even with his combat knife alone. That knife wasn’t some Army crap, oh no—it was Anton’s gift, bought for a ridiculous amount of Serum. Big, with sharp teeth, nasty like Vik himself.

There were few people as nasty as Vik.

Deadly Vik, clever Vik. Loyal Vik. Vik, who came to his bed nest every night since their first meeting. Vik, who kept his distance from everyone else, Vik, who seemed to have no flaws except for his craving for the dance with death.

He had been ignoring a lot of Anton’s orders lately.

Vik.

Anton caught himself scratching at his skin of his wrist under the cuff of his white shirt, and clasped his hands behind his back tightly.

The door opened. Anton whipped around, and his chest tightened at the sight of Vik. He was wearing that mended and overmended black jacket, but instead of filling Anton with sadness tinted with tenderness, now it made his fists clench. “Well?”

Vik looked at him with a raised eyebrow, then said in an annoyingly neutral tone, “Alex has requested a meeting with you posthaste, in that cave where the mole attack happened. Alone. He stated in a missive that he possessed information regarding recent events.”

Anton exhaled. “Thank the Shadow, someone is actually doing something and listening to my orders. I’m going.” He made a step towards the door, then frowned at Vik. “You are staying.”

Vik, who had been fixing the holster on his thigh, looked up. “I’m going with you. Boss.”

Anton turned to him bodily. “No. You are not,” he managed, gritting his teeth. “He requested my presence in private, and for a reason.”

“Regardless, you shouldn’t—”

“That’s not for you to decide!”

The shout rang in the room, and the silence in its wake was deafening.

“You are gaining influence,” Vik said in the same neutral voice, “and with everything that has been happening lately you’d be ill-advised—”

“I can damn well protect myself!”

“Your history of being ambushed says otherwise.”

“I don’t want your protection! I don’t want you throwing yourself between me and danger every time!”

“That was only on—”

“I’ve had enough of watching you trying to die!” That was it. Wasn’t it? All this time, since the moment they had met. All of it was unraveling. “If you break my orders,” he said in a low tone, “one more time, we are through.”

“What... do you mean.”

“We are over. Done. You’d have to go.”

Vik’s hand closed on the gun.

Maybe that _was_ it. The end. Anton couldn’t think clearly. He knew he was bound to say something that would destroy things. He didn’t want that. So he turned his back to Vik and walked out of the room.

He wasn’t followed, even though he expected to be.

He needed Vik, in this time of trouble, and he didn’t want it to end like this.

He didn’t want it to end at all.

But pushing away all the nagging thoughts was hard. They were hollow thoughts.

Who knew everything about their operations, and more, planned many of them himself? Who knew the routes, drop times, concealed shipments? Who slunk away from scrutiny? Who was the closest to Anton?

Whom Anton would choose over everything he had built?..

He made his lonely way to the Underworks. Following the attack he had ordered a sweep of this part of the tunnels, and it had to be relatively safe now. The cave still contained rubbish from the attack, and a stack of half-broken crates strewn about it.

A lone figure was sitting on one of those crated. Alex got up. “Boss!” The boy was shifting, his gaze not stopping on Anton. He was hell of a lot nervous. It seemed whatever he had uncovered or suspected had the potential to make his life difficult. _Whomever_ he had suspected.

Блядство.

Anton walked to him and said in as calm a tone as he could, “It’s all right, Alex.”

Alex glanced behind him then at Anton. “ _He_ is not with you, is he?”

Anton’s heart sank. He knew whom Alex meants. “No,” he said quietly. “He is not.”

“Good. Good.” He licked his lips.

Anton was growing impatient, but he knew he shouldn’t rush it.

“Good,” Alex repeated, nodded, seemingly to himself. Then looked at Anton. His face shifted, changed into an ugly thing. Alex grabbed the nailgun from a holster and aimed it at Anton’s face.

Anton stared at the sharp point of the nail. Looked over the length of the gun at Alex. “What,” he said flatly, “the fuck is this.”

Alex licked his lips again. His forehead was covered with sweat, even though the cave was quite cold. But his hand didn’t waver. “Sorry, _boss_. You’re losing your grip, and anyway nobody wants to work for someone who has grieved the Prince.”

“You have never even met him,” Anton said. “You don’t know _shit_ about him. You don’t know _who he is_.”

“But the folk sent after you was real, was they? Someone has beef to pick with you, boss, and you ain’t looking to fix that.”

“You don’t know _shit_ ,” he hissed. His hands were twitching. He wanted to close his fingers on the brat’s throat and squeeze. “I’m paying you! I made it so that you fathers have a decent life!”

“You’re dragging us all into the pit, boss. You are weak.”

Anton launched himself at him. He didn’t think, didn’t calculate: there was a roar, and that roar was tearing out of his throat, and his vision was dark. The next moment, he found himself on top of Alex, knees pressing on his arms, the bastard struggling under him with blood on his chin.

“Weak?” Anton managed, even though his chest was wrapped with hot iron and he could barely breathe. “I’ll show you weak!”

“Yeah, right, _mutie_.”

Anton froze. His fist was clenched so tightly he felt like his bones were grinding against each other. “What.”

Alex smiled his bloody smile. “You think I forgot? I didn’t. Fucking mutie. Should be thrown into the Pen with others, or better, kicked outside the dome to roast. Mutie with a mutie mommy—”

He lowered his fist on Alex’s face. And again. And again.

He didn’t stop.

Until he was being pulled bodily away, an arm around his waist—but he surged forward. To hurt. To kill.

“Tosha, that’s enough. He’s dead. It’s over. I’ll take you home. Tosha.”

He stopped struggling, listening to Vik’s voice, and let Vik pull him away. His body was aching.


	10. Chapter 10

He was seated on a stool, a tin basin on the floor between his feet. Vik, crouching in front of him, was pouring water from a jug slowly over his hands. The water was making a melodious noise as it fell into the basin. It ran red.

Such a waste.

Vik had pulled the jacket off Anton. His own was draped over the chair standing near, his gun holster and combat knife resting on the seat.

Anton’s hands were numb, although he registered throbbing pain. His heartbeat was steady. A stupid machine pulse.

The water was cold.

He was so tired.

The remains of water sloshed in the jug when Vik put it down. The jug was made of tin, too, with triangles etched onto it.

Warm hands closed over his, then opened his fingers slowly. Anton noticed that his hands were trembling. Despite the wash, blood was seeping from cuts and abrasions.

Vik reached behind himself, one hand on Anton’s, and came up with tweezers. He shifted his pose, cradled Anton’s hand in his palm and started pulling small white shards from his flesh.

It took Anton a while to realize, in the same detached way, that it was shards of bone.

“I have to talk to his fathers,” he heard himself say. Listening to himself, he was surprised to find his voice calm. No, not calm— _empty_ , devoid of emotion. “It is best if I tell them he was killed by moles. I will set up pension for them, all of his pay to them. I tell everyone we don’t kill, but I— _Are you even listening to me?_ ” He winced from the ringing of his own voice. He didn’t want to repeat what they had started, _before_. Didn’t want a fight again.

Vik went still for a fraction of a moment, then put the tweezers carefully on the floor near the basin. He didn’t release Anton’s hand. Their temperatures were evening out. Vik’s hand was not cold anymore, unlike the usual, and Anton’s hands had warmed up.

Viktor sat back on his haunches. And looked up.

Anton noticed with a start a few white hairs in Vik’s dark mop. He didn’t know what to say. How to make anything right. Didn’t know that he could. Vik’s hand, warmer than usual, touched his cheek, but he turned away from that touch. Vik’s hand dropped to his shoulder.

“How can you touch me?” Anton asked. “Knowing what I am?”

“You are not a mutant. You are not… dirty, not wrong.”

Anton freed a hand from Vik’s hold and ran it over his shaved head. Anxious, as always, to find dried up brown patches. “You don’t know. I might turn any day.”

“You won’t,” Vik said, and his voice was so gentle that Anton’s throat was tight.

He swallowed.

The hand on his shoulder slid up his neck and to his cheek again. Vik stood up on his knees, and the press of his lips on Anton’s was so very soft. “You are not dirty.”

Anton’s hands were shaking. He chased Vik when it seemed that he would pull back completely, but Vik met him halfway again. Anton found himself short of breath.

It was a hollow kind of fire.

He wanted to drag Vik into it, wanted it to consume them both. Burn the whole world.

He got up and swayed, but Vik was there to steady him, to support him. The basin rang when they turned it over, water spreading dark over the floor. Anton didn’t care. He couldn’t stop kissing Vik, touching Vik. He pulled Vik closer, closer by his shirt, biting into his lips, listening to Vik’s breath—stuttering, wet, gasping. Vik dug his fingers into his sides, his mouth just as hungry.

Anton wasn’t numb anymore.

Vik pushed him to the wall, wedged a knee between his thighs. Anton couldn’t get enough. He pulled Vik’s shirt from his pants and then up over his head. Vik’s hair was tousled, his eyes bright.

Anton couldn’t get enough. It was never enough.

He put a hand on the nape of Vik’s neck and pressed down, touching their foreheads together. Vik’s breathing was just as heavy as his, and their chests were pressing together with each inhale.

“Tosha.”

“Vitya.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, Vik’s breath hot on his lips.

If only they could stay like this forever.

If only.

Anton snarled, dragging his fingers through Vik’s hair, pulled. Vik’s breath hitched. It was enough.

It was never going to be enough.

They stumbled to the bedroom, trading bites. There was a bruise spreading just under Vik’s neck, like spilled dark water.

Anton fell into the nest, pulling Vik on top of himself, Vik tugging a blanket over them. Anton raked his nails down Vik’s spine, and Vik arched with a moan, beautiful, heavy. Anton latched onto his bare neck, windpipe so fragile, pulse frantic. He could tear it out and drink his blood. He imagined it so vividly for a moment that he _tasted_ blood. Warm, alive.

Alive.

“Vitya.”

“Tosha.”

Vik’s eyes were glimmering down at him. Anton hooked a knee over Vik’s hip, pressing down on the small of his back with his hands.

“Like this?” Vik whispered, kissing the top of his head, his brow, his cheekbones, everything.

Anton was short of breath. He reached up, wanting to be even closer. “Like this. Now.”

It took them just half a breath to find the perfect rhythm, fast and sweet, grinding together, with Vik’s face tucked under Anton’s chin, his hands clawing at Anton’s shoulders, tearing his shirt. Anton was still mostly clothed. He didn’t care. He mapped the scars on Vik’s back with his hands, the coil of desire winding up in his gut, white-hot, his thighs straining from the sharp pain of Vik’s hips pressing them open, Vik’s desperate wet breaths on his throat, faster and faster—until Vik went still, then shuddered. Once. Twice.

Anton flattened his palms on Vik’s warm back, ran them up and down. Then rolled them over and looked down. Debauched, Vik was beautiful.

He was beautiful.

Anton grinned. “I’m not finished with you.”


	11. Chapter 11

Anton woke slowly. He was hot under the many blankets—and he realized that he was alone in the nest. It wasn’t a novel sensation. There was a slight depression still where Vik used to be.

The blankets were a comfortable weight on and around Anton’s naked body. He didn’t remember when they had shed the last bits of clothing—but he was certain there hadn’t been bandages on his hands when they had finally fallen asleep, tangled in each other so tightly he hadn’t been sure where lines between them were.

He ran fingertips over the bandages.

He had to get up. He had a lot of things to do, and he wouldn’t fall asleep again without Vik anyway.

The rawness of his back told him that it was most likely covered in scratches. If he remembered the night right, Vik must be in no better state. He wanted Vik back here, away from everything.

Anton sighed and sat up, got out of the nest, felt around for clothes. He didn’t want to turn the lights on. He found his pants folded neatly on a table, along with his shirt and, judging by tears, Vik’s own shirt. Anton put the pants on and then slipped on Vik’s shirt. He would mend the tears later.

He slid the door open and stepped into the dark corridor. The only light was coming from downstairs. Anton couldn’t tell what time it was, but it was definitely the time to pull himself together.

He needed to talk to Vik first, however. He couldn’t leave that fight they had had without talking about it. They would only shatter again if they ignored it.

There were voices coming from downstairs, seemingly out of the office. Some of the boys might have returned with some news… Or about Alex.

Anton leaned on the wall briefly, took a few breaths to steady himself.

“Are you certain?” The voice was cold, reverential, and Anton placed it. Vasiliy. The last one of his first boys. At least someone was loyal, and didn’t try to rat Vik out either.

“I am.” That was Vik. “Two years is enough of an observation period, and my conclusion will not change on the subject. I am wrapping up the operation. We shall withdraw.”

“But, Captain—”

“It is _my_ operation, Lieutenant. And my conclusion is that it is easier to control the lowlifes of Ophir if there is only one major player instead of many small ones. Of course there _will_ be small ones, but with the Vory controlling the territory we can focus on other things, and, should the need arise, wipe the Vory out. And now that I have arranged to rid Anton of all the unloyal elements, he is more than capable of rising to full power. Send word to the Directorate. I shall make my report when I tidy up. Dismissed.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Anton heard footsteps clicking away, a door opening and closing.

Then he descended down the stairs. Without a rush, he stepped through the open doors to the office.

Vik was taking off his black mole jacket, the one with stitches and tears, folding is neatly on his desk. Only when he put it down did he look up at Anton. He didn’t seem surprised to see him.

Anton felt cold, not because he was barefoot—a different kind of cold. In his bones. In his lips. In his chest. “You meant me to overhear it all,” he said in a flat voice. He didn’t know whether he could spare any emotion. All emotions were heavy rocks inside him, melded together.

Vik looked tired, a dark shade about his eyes. “Tosha—”

He clenched his fists. “You don’t have the _right_ to this name anymore.”

There wasn’t a weapon on Vik, his gun and his combat knife—Anton’s gift—resting near the folded jacket. “You’ve always known what I am.”

And he had. He had always known.

“You’re making a Major now in the ASC, huh? After this operation?”

“Without doubt. Tosha.”

His lips were numb. “Don’t say this name.”

Vik smiled. It was a slow, terrible smile that didn’t reach his eyes. His eyes remained tired. _“Tosha.”_

Anton’s hands were already bandaged and clenched into fists. And so, he rushed to Vik.


	12. Chapter 12

Fifteen years, Dandolo. Fifteen years—or you’d say, only seven? I had never gotten the hang of your yearly count.

Fifteen years of blood and war and toil. Clawing my way to the top.

Watching him ~~unravel~~ ~~go mad with power~~ ~~so alone~~

We were… We were.

 

Nothing has changed. Everything has changed.

He died. I know he did. News travel fast.

Far, far away in the cold. He never cared for cold, but he will be so cold there without me. I can’t stand that thought.

I’m coming after him. I’m bringing him home.

I have always been a fool.

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to the Technomancer/Spiders discord! I'm grateful for all your support and inspiration, you have no idea how much it means for me.  
> And of course, shoutout to Spiders! Without them, none of this would exist.


End file.
